


Wrath and Envy [Historical Kylo x Reader]

by river_wrath



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, POV Second Person, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25265893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river_wrath/pseuds/river_wrath
Summary: Life in your small country town has been mundane since your birth. Always standing out from the rest of your siblings, you were chastised and mocked for being an adventurous young woman with no real eagerness for marriage. After the death of your father in a shipwreck a year ago, you find yourself walking the miles home alone after being caught in a storm on your way home from town. After being struck by a carriage in a dangerous accident, your life becomes inexplicably tangled with that of a strange man with haunted, brooding eyes.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	1. The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all the views and kudos so far. It's making me very happy that other people are enjoying it.
> 
> * I'll try to post a new chapter every day, but depending on how long they are it might be every two days *

.The July air was thick with the smell and heaviness of an approaching storm. You hear your sister’s voice behind you, gossipping with the handsome young shopkeep, not yet noticing the worrisome weather. Staring nervously out of the window, you watch the gloom of thick clouds blanket the town. The street dogs began to tuck their tails and dash away behind buildings, beneath carriages, and into stables.

“We need to leave,” you say, chewing on your lip. The walk home is miles, and you know your mother would be working herself into a fit the longer her children were away. Storms made the whole family bristle with anxiety after the sinking of your father’s ship two years ago.

“Victoria,” you say firmly. “Please, we need to leave.”

She turns to look at you, rolling her eyes. There was nothing she cared about less than the worries of her little sister. “Thomas will drive me in his carriage, won’t you?” She looked at the young clerk and batted her eyelashes.

With a blush that seemed to consume his entire face, Thomas nodded and swallowed so heavily you thought he might have taken down a stone. “She can come too,” he said, nodding in your direction. A wave of red heat passes over you, clouding your vision. If the choices were walking in the storm or facing an insufferable wait with the two young lovers, you would choose to walk.

“Wait--” says your sister, but you have already stormed out of the shop, leaving the two of them to weather the storm  _ privately _ . A little rain on your skin would clear your head. Your sister’s lifetime plan to do nothing but look pretty and find herself betrothed had always caused your temper to flare. The vexation experienced at the idea of losing your freedom to become the domestic companion of a man was unnatural, your family lamented. It should be every girl’s dream of becoming the wife of a well-to-do bachelor, producing him an heir, and laying aside in your estate to host parties.

You had not yet made it out of town before the rain started. The wind was fearsome, whipping your hat off of your head and beating you with water. Within minutes you swore you were soaked to the bone, clutching your hat in one hand and a gathered fistful of hem in the other. Those who were smart enough to get inside and away before the storm started had tucked themselves in near the fire, and your persuasive sister had entangled herself in a private moment with the man she desired to marry.

A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the world in a sickly glow for a split second before the thunder cracked, rumbling the ground beneath you. Gritting your teeth, you quicken your pace. Beyond the edge of town, the roads diverted quickly into muddy paths, churned into soft muck by the violent rain. Your boots slip and sink into the ground, slowing your journey considerably. Risking a brief illness seemed smarter to you than a broken bone -- lest you had to lie helpless like a damsel in distress until a benevolent traveler passes.

As you trudge through the mud, your mind wanders, envisioning yourself a tired knight, horseless and bruised but still alive. Your armor is heavy on your chest, your sword splintered in its sheath. Regardless of your injuries and the brooding memories of the horrors you faced on the battlefield, you must find your way home. Your family would be waiting for you, concerned by reports from the battle of the hundreds of dead. You knew that you would arrive home a champion and a hero. The town would talk of nothing but the lady knight, who fought and survived when hundreds of men could not say the same. There would be proposals coming by the dozens to your home, and you would decline them all.

A sudden crack of lightning snaps you from your trance. You’re far from town now, the escapism of your frivolous daydreaming relieving your mind of the fear and worry of traveling in such a storm. Recognizing your surroundings, you understand that a mile or so from here is the gates to the drive of a large estate. Your mother often lamented that she only knew that the gentleman who owned it was extremely wealthy -- in all her years she had never seen a carriage come or go from that drive. 

Rumors told of a man who was haunted by his past, that locked himself within that mansion, never leaving. The girls in town proposed that he lived there alone, staffless, and wandered the halls like a specter. Thomas, the shopkeeper’s son, claimed that he once had to deliver an order of groceries there. He said that he could hear howling wolves while riding down the drive, and when he knocked on the door, no one answered. Thomas claimed that all he saw of life in the house was a single candle burning in the window.

Others still reported that the young man simply chose to live in the city, that he kept the estate as an investment, or perhaps to retire to in old age. Though you believe the latter more than fantastic tales of the supernatural, you still caught yourself peering into the dark woods that surrounded the property, straining your eyes as if you expected to see a ghost or the glowing eyes of a snarling wolf.

Your mother always scolded you for your imagination. She oft complained that the Lord punished her with no sons but a daughter that acted like one. In her mind, there was nothing but disappointment for the girl who did not dance at balls, kept her mind in tales of adventure, and longed to take up a sword and fight. When the neighbor’s boy had asked you for your hand on your 17th birthday, your mother begged that you accept. In her mind, there would never be another offer. She was right; it had been three years since, and you had avoided the idea of marriage as if it was a leper. 

These thoughts consumed you, spinning around your head like a whirlpool. Your mind jumped from impressions of your mother to your father, his corpse sitting somewhere on the seafloor. He saw none of his children betrothed. Your family now lived in fear of losing the house; that a mysterious male heir would appear to claim your childhood cottage.

By the time you shook yourself from your preoccupation, the sound of hooves splattering in the mud seemed to be directly on top of you. Your eyes turned, widened in horror as you watched the carriage clatter down upon you. The driver made efforts to derail the carriage from your path, though their efforts were fruitless. You were struck twice, once with the fearsome pressure of the two front hooves of the horse, and secondly with the force of the speeding wheels. 

Knocked to the ground, you feel the air forced from your lungs. Grateful for the soft, wet earth, your head does not ache as much as it could, but every time you gasp for air, your mouth fills with water. There is an absolute peace that comes with facing death, as you are sure you are facing now. No sound reached your ears, and your sight turned fuzzy. Your breathing became weak and shallow, and you closed your eyes against the rain.  _ No more bothersome daughter, _ you thought, swallowing a lump in your throat— _no_ _ more annoying sister. _

So this is what became of the knight, killed not in battle but struck down by a horse and carriage. Blood pooled from your chest, staining the front of your blue frock a malicious violet. You wondered if perhaps it was your sister that struck you, choosing not to stop and raise your body from the mud. What would she tell your mother? That you had refused their offer of a dry carriage home and had chosen to walk? That some terrible accident must have occurred?

You had not even noticed that the carriage had stopped a few yards from where you lay. The horses stood, snorting and panting as the cold rain pushed steam off of their bodies. The driver of the carriage had stepped down and was slogging through the muck towards you. It was only their footsteps that alerted you to the presence of another. 

“So Victoria,” you whispered, opening your eyes just enough to see a cloaked figure stooped before you. “You’ve chosen not to let me die on the road.” A cough escaped your mouth, bubbling with hot liquid. With weakness overcoming you once again, you closed your eyes once more and silenced yourself from talking. There was no response from the mysterious figure; instead, you felt secure, calloused hands reach beneath your body and lift you. 

_ That is not my sister, _ you thought. Perhaps it was Thomas, but you did not remember him being so strong in arm and body. Curiosity overcame you. If you were going to die, and you believed now that it was indeed your last moments, you wanted to see the face of the man who would bring your limp and battered body to your mother’s stoop. Gathering your fleeting energy, you opened your eyes and gazed up into the eyes of a man you had never seen before.

His dark hair was curly, stringy from the rain, and plastered against his scalp. He wore no hat, and the hood of his cloak had fallen around his shoulders. He had a strong, square jaw, with large freckles peppered across his face. The man had a large, curved nose and a prominent brow that was drawn tightly into a frown. His mouth was full, and you thought you could see him speaking to you. Whatever he said, you did not hear. Handsome enough, you thought frivolously. Then he turned his gaze down and looked at you.

Your breath was knocked from your chest again with the force of being struck with a heavy mallet. Never before had you seen eyes like those that met yours. Dark, like some forbidden magical stone. You thought you saw a fire burning in them, dancing with the shadows of forgotten people.

The stranger’s hands tightened around you, drawing you in closer to his chest. His heartbeat felt so strong as it thundered against your chest. He opened the door of the carriage and pulled you in, laying your aching body down on the floor. You watched, vision in and out, as the man removed his cloak clasp and put it over you like a blanket.

“Please don’t die,” he muttered, before closing the door. It was only a minute or two before you felt the carriage rocking in motion, though your thoughts could not be less from the present. Like his eyes, his voice seemed to have seared itself into your mind. It was deep, shockingly so. It had rumbled through you as the thunder did, but not in a way that startled. No, this was as if the earth had spoken to you. It was all you could hear echoing in your thoughts before the rocking of the carriage lulled you into unconsciousness.


	2. The Stranger

You awoke with a soreness, unlike anything you had ever experienced before. Before you roused yourself sufficiently, you struggled to recall the events of the night before. It wasn’t until you looked at yourself did the recollection come hurtling back to you. The bed you found yourself in was not your own: it was large and plush, the likes of which you had never experienced before. The blankets were softer than anything your hands had ever touched, and the pillows felt like clouds when you lay upon them.

The room you found yourself in felt like a dream. The walls were pale blue and gold, the ceiling high with a large chandelier in the center. Opposite the bed was a dressing table with a large mirror, where you gazed at yourself in frightened astonishment. You were not wearing the same blue dress you wore to town. Instead, you found yourself clothed in a gown of white linen, wrapped in a silk dressing-gown the color of luscious wine. With a panicked glance around the room, you realize your clothes are nowhere in sight.

As you try to attempt to raise yourself from the bed, a sharp pain rockets through your chest. Your hand, thrown up to clutch at the aching area, finds that it is wrapped tightly in strips of linen cloth. There were drops of blood scattered on the floor, with a basin of red water beside the bed. Wherever you were, someone had been fighting throughout the night to keep you alive.

Attempting once more to stand, you can slowly raise yourself to your feet and balance on the post of the bed. After a moment, you felt steady enough to take a few brave steps towards the door. Filled with confidence, you move more swiftly now, throwing open the door of the chamber to find yourself standing at the end of a long hall. The center of the space was hollow, revealing the high ceilings of the foyer. At the end of the corridor, you could see the top of a grand staircase, with rooms running along the marble corridor towards them. On the opposite side of the open foyer from you, you could see an identical hallway also meeting at the top of the stairs. Beyond the stairs was another large hall that leads deeper into the mansion.

The house was silent. As your bare feet stepped onto the cold stone floor, you felt as though you had entered a crypt. With a shiver of fear, you wrap the dressing gown tighter around yourself and push a piece of your hair behind your ear. 

Where were you?

You had never been one to believe in a life beyond eternity of peaceful utopia, but as you limped along down the silent corridor, you could not be sure that was not where you were. At each door, you stopped and knocked, and at each entry, you received no answer. After several long pauses, questioning your sanity, you began to turn the knobs and look into each room. 

It appeared that each was a private chamber and that all but yours were empty. Each room contained a large bed, a dressing table, and full windows that looked out upon the rolling, fog-covered hills of land you didn’t recognize. A chill fell over you. Was the afterlife indeed a life alone in an empty home? The longer you wandered the halls in silence, the more convinced you became that perhaps you had died on that muddy road. The stranger you saw with the mysterious eyes had been no man, you thought, but Death himself carrying you to your home in utopia.

_ No, _ you thought, shaking yourself. Now was not the time for your imagination to gallop away from you. You were very clearly alive when you confronted your reflection in the mirror in the bedroom. Although pale and weak-looking, you were sure that those frightened eyes you had met were your own. Surely if you were a spirit, trapped in this home for eternity, you would appear with a little more liveliness and looking a little less gaunt.

Turning at the end of the corridor, you chose instead to descend the stairs. After seven empty rooms, you were confident that any more on the opposite side of the foyer would lay abandoned as well. The marble staircase was cold, clinging to your clammy feet as the train of your dressing gown fanned out behind you. With fear taking hold of you, you quickened your pace. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, you stand in the silence for a moment before you convince yourself you can hear the sound of footsteps somewhere to the left of the ground floor foyer.

Perhaps you were not alone as you thought, deciding to follow the noise. The sound caught by your keen ears led you down a wide corridor before turning left and passing down a tighter, smaller hallway with no windows. The noises were getting louder, the footsteps slamming against the ground. You could hear heavy breathing, and now and then an exerted grunt. You were sure that now you had determined the door from which the noise was coming.

Steeling yourself in the hallway, you knocked three times on the door and stepped back, awaiting a response. The sounds behind the door stopped abruptly. Suddenly the doorknob turned, and the door swung back. Your eyes widened as you were met with the shock of what you saw, though you were uncertain who looked more alarmed.

It was the man that rescued you the day before. He was dressed only in his trousers, revealing a strongly muscled torso. Despite your best efforts to remain steely and unbothered, you felt your stomach turn in your belly and rise into your throat, your face getting hot. Quickly you averted your gaze, but not before you noticed the sword held casually in his hand, and the blood splashed across his face and chest.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice seeming to cut through you and settle around your heart like cold, blue fire. The man gave you a crooked smile, but to you, it felt more like a smirk. “I thought you almost certainly die.” You were sure he meant to sound comforting, but all you felt was malice you’d never experienced before. 

You must have been looking at him with wide, fearful eyes for the man glanced down at himself curiously before looking at you again, bowing deeply. “Forgive me, miss. Give me a moment.” He stepped back and closed the door, though you had no intention of staying. Quickly, ignoring the searing pain radiating through your chest, you turned and ran down the hallway, turning sharply into the wide marble corridor. Again you found yourself in the foyer, and as you stared around in frightened disbelief, you heard shoe steps on the stone behind you.

Thinking fast, you chose not to wait and meet the man once more. Instead, you turned towards the massive doors of the house and began to pull them open. The pain that flashed through your body was blinding, but you felt there was a fate worse if the stranger caught up with you. You tugged at the door again, but in your haste had failed to see that it was locked.

You felt a hand grasp your wrist, fingers wrapping completely around your forearm as if you were the handle of a blade.

“Please,” said that velvet voice, again piercing into the back of your mind. “If you try and run, you’ll hurt yourself. Don’t be stupid.” The stranger pulled your arm, and as if under a spell, you found yourself struggling to resist. His macabre and threatening nature was magnetic. It chilled you to the bone.

“I must return home,” you pleaded, but he had pulled you back and was facing you at a nearly immodest distance. The way your heart danced at the top of your throat felt like a galloping horse. You felt faint. “My mother will be worried, sick. Please. It would make a monster of me to stay in a strange man’s home. Let me go.” The man looked at you, his brow creased in worry and disgust as if he were ashamed that you would suggest such a thing.

“You’ll take my horse,” he replied, releasing your wrist. You felt the grip of his hand like a phantom greave around your arm. “I won’t let you walk.” He bowed deeply again, sliding the back of his hand against his face to wipe away the blood there. You were glad at least that he had dressed fully, that you no longer had to feel as though you saw something you shouldn’t. The stranger seemed to be gone in an instant, leaving the large doors you had tried to pull open only moments earlier.

You felt a conflict within yourself like a war. Half of your spirit desired to stay, to spend time looking into those mysterious, cold, dark eyes. The other half felt paralyzed with fear. When the man reappeared leading a large black horse, you stepped out onto the stone step to meet them. “You need shoes,” the man said, but you quickly shook your head.

He grabbed your waist, lifting you onto the horse’s back as though you weighed nothing. The power and restraint that you felt in his arms sent a whirlwind in your belly. You were embarrassed at how stupidly childish these sensations seemed. You felt powerless in his presence, and the way he drew you in made you afraid.

“How will I return him?” you asked, your voice catching in your throat. Internally you chastised yourself for sounding like a frightened child. Avoiding his eyes, you chose to stare down at the thick mane of his horse.

“He knows his way back,” said the stranger. “Just let him go, and he’ll find his way here.” He stepped away from the horse and looked up at you, brushing his hair out of his face with casual grace. “I hope perhaps you will, too.” The corner of his mouth brushed up just a hair, causing you to scowl. 

“You forget your place, sir,” you replied sharply. “Though I might decline to remark on the majority of indecent things you have done to me since last afternoon, I pray you will say nothing further to me.”

The stranger laughed, and for a long moment, simply looked at you. He laid one hand on the bridle of his horse and the other on his waist. 

“Ren,” he responded. “My name.” Again the man bowed deeply before delivering a swift hand to the rump of the black stallion. The horse bolted forward before you had a chance to respond, or remark on his forwardness. You now had to focus on staying seated on his mount, who galloped down the long, shaded drive with impressive strides.

When you reached the end of the drive, you recognized where you were. The fear you had felt instilled in you during your stay suddenly made perfect sense as you rode through the gates of the mysterious, closed-off estate. The man was as strange and frightening as she had assumed from the rumors, and now suddenly she understood that he was not merely a wealthy man from the city. There was something wrong with that man.

Now on the main roads, you slowed the horse to a smooth trot, wincing each time you jostled your ribs. You could see the trampled ground where you were struck by this very horse the day before. Your mind began to run wild again. If he had no staff in his house, who was responsible for changing you out of your bloody clothes? The thought of those large, secure, and calloused hands drifting over your body, drawing a knife and dragging it down your body until your dress was split open. You thought you could feel the sharp tip of the knife slide down between your breasts. Gooseflesh blossomed across your arms and back, a desperate carnal feeling spreading through your belly.

You shook your head violently and focused on your riding. You had never felt so consumed with thoughts like these, and the enthusiasm with which your mind became preoccupied with such volatile delights alarmed you. Your hands, grasping the soft leather reins of the bridle, were trembling slightly. You had existed for all this time without looking twice at a man of any status or physical significance.

When you finally arrived at the doorstep of your home, both of your sisters and your mother ran out to greet you. Tenderly they helped you down from the strange horse.

“Whose horse is this?” asked your younger sister.

“What happened to you?” exclaimed your mother.

“Whose clothes are those? Where were you? Are you okay? Are you bleeding?”

You drew a deep breath and looked down at yourself in confusion. You were bleeding. The jostling of the ride home had reopened the wounds in your chest, and your lungs felt tight and sore. Before answering the frantic questions from your family, you turned to the horse and thanked him, stroking his velvety nose before spanking him on the rump. He went galloping down the road in the direction you came.

“I was hit by a carriage walking home in the storm,” you answered quietly. “The man that hit me pulled me out of the mud and tended for me. I left as soon as I woke up.” You found yourself breathless, but it was not due to the exertion of riding. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard that deep velvet voice in your mind.


	3. The Dream

Your mother refused to allow you beyond your bed. Every hour of the day, a member of your family sat with you. Each time you begged to get up and move around, she denied your request, and each morning your mother roused you from sleep to ask you about the  _ man _ .

She was not the only one whose mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the stranger. For a week after your bizarre injury, you could think of little else. Every night you wandered the halls of that empty home in your dreams, searching endlessly for the door that opened with Mr. Ren behind it. Your mind strayed daily as your sister sat at your bedside and worked on her sewing, regaling you with tales of the mundane from town. All you could see were those large, strong hands cradling a sword as though it was a toy. Corded muscle stretched under tight fair skin. Over and over again, you repeated the vision of Ren standing, chest heaving, with blood sprayed across his body. Every time you thought of it, your heart raced.

Slowly, as your recovery drew on and good health seemed impossible to return to, you began to think of other things. Your sister explained enthusiastically each day which frivolous object she departed to town for, if only as an excuse to gaze longingly at her beau. As summer began to conclude and your ribs began to feel healthy, your mother rushed up to your room and pressed a piece of paper into your hand.

“What is this?” you asked her, raising your eyebrows at her haste and enthusiasm.

“An invitation,” replied she, breathlessly throwing herself down into the armchair beside you. “We have all been invited to a ball of some significance. Though I know you are not one for dancing, I would encourage you to attend if only to show our neighbors of status that you did not die a waif two months ago.”

Quickly you looked at the invitation, your eyes devouring the words. You found yourself breathless, an eagerness for a name that shocked you. “Who is hosting?” you asked, looking at her with glittering desperation.

Your mother looked at you with shock. She had never before seen you so excited by the idea of a social outing. “Lord and Lady Armitage,” she answered. “There should be people of some significance there. Perhaps your younger sister will find herself as blessed as Victoria, and not so mercilessly tormented as yourself.”

“Regardless of your cold remark, I’ll go,” you replied, raising yourself into a sitting position. “Relieving myself from the dark chambers of this house, and presenting myself in the company of those beyond my draining family will do me good.”

Nodding with an air of proud success, your mother took the invitation and fled the room, closing the door briefly before her head appeared again. “I will write back immediately,” she said, “do let me know if you have something presentable to wear.”

You leaned back against the headboard and let out a long sigh. There were things you would instead do once you could leave the house, but the way your mother bit into you about resisting high society felt like a knife in your back. Besides, perhaps you  _ would _ meet interesting people there. The Lord and Lady Armitage had many connections across the country and had the most impressive estate. Whenever there was a word of a party of theirs, people scrambled to see if they would receive an invitation.

As far as you could remember, your family had never been invited to one before. Pulling yourself out of bed and peering out of the window at the early morning sun, you decided that something strange was going on. Watching your reflection in the mirror on your dressing table, you pulled your stays up over your body, careful not to cause yourself any pain as you laced them.

From the chest at the end of your bed, you removed a sage green dress and pulled it on over your head, feeling tenderness as you lift your arms. Smoothing the skirts down over your body, you finally sat upon the same chest to pull your shoes on over your stockings. Again you were confronted with your reflection, meeting your eyes and gazing at yourself for an extended pause.

It was like you could feel those hands again, cradling your waist as if you were a doll. As you watched your reflection, you could have sworn you saw the strange Mr. Ren sitting behind you, feeling his warm breath on the back of your neck. You started, jumping to your feet and rubbing your hands together anxiously. It had been weeks since the mysterious stranger had occupied your thoughts, and suddenly now it was as if he was living in your mind, a ghost in the space around you.

Deciding you had enough of looking upon yourself, and distressed by the loss of manners you displayed in your thoughts, you moved quickly from your room and hurried down the stairs. The cook had breakfast still laid out, and you realized as you looked at the plates of sausage, eggs, and boiled potatoes that you were famished. Sitting down at the table, you filled your plate, looking up as your sister entered the room. 

“So there’s a ball,” said Victoria, sitting down across from you.

“It seems so,” you answered. “Though I can’t remember any of us ever receiving invitations to a gathering of such social importance.” Lifting your fork, you pushed a potato into your mouth.

“No,” Victoria muttered. She leaned forward on her elbows and stared at you intently. “It makes me wonder what any of us did to get ourselves invited to such an event.”

You shrugged, taking a swallow of water to refresh your dry throat. You started to think you knew where this was going. Victoria was no fool, and in her heart of hearts, she was a hopeless romantic. The prospect that the mysterious man you had told her about was now pulling strings to get you into events would have been delicious to her. The more you thought of it, you realized with horror, the more it began to make sense.

“That stranger you met,” she started, “you said he seemed wealthy.”

“Yes,” you answered, suspiciously quickly. “But I don’t think the man felt anything towards me beyond relief that he was no longer responsible for my care.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow at your fast reply. “My sister sounds a wicked liar,” she answered, pushing back her chair and gliding from the room. “Eat quickly, secret keeper. We must make arrangements for your gown.”

There was little left of your appetite when faced with the prying truth of your pernicious sister. A creeping feeling of uncertainty burrowed its way into the pit of your stomach, churning the breakfast you had just consumed. Though the warmth of his hands grasping roughly at your body clawed at you like an animal, the state of the man when you had found him in his large, empty house was haunting you. What would be the reason for a man of such wealth and apparent status to be found in his own home covered in blood and carrying a weapon? You had heard no crying of an animal, of that you were sure.

The dark identity of Mr. Ren was shrouded in macabre seclusion. You had never been one to shy away from the prospect of danger and adventure, but you believed you had never been faced with the suggestion of a killer, either.  _ No, _ you thought,  _ there must be some reason for it. Perhaps it was just theatrics; maybe he was just an odd performer. _ While these musings brought you a small sense of comfort, you couldn’t shake the uneasiness that consumed you now that the strange Mr. Ren had been pulled to the front of your mind again.

Rising from the breakfast table, you pass through the parlor and onto the drawing-room, where you found your mother and your two sisters. Victoria sat, embroidering a handkerchief with her eyes flitting upwards to look at you repeatedly. Your younger sister, Katherine, was engulfed in the pages of a book. You found your mother sitting at the writing desk, scribbling away.

“The recluse decides to join us,” quipped Victoria, setting down her work. “All give praise to our most suspicious sister, whose mysterious night with a strange man has no doubt given us, at last, our entry into high society.” 

“Here, here,” said your mother, turning to look at you. “At last, you have caught the interest of someone who will do you some good.” She smiled encouragingly and turned back to drafting her response to the invitation, as well as what were surely letters of gossip to her friends and relatives.

“Please,” you begged, sitting down on a settee that was older than you. “I can assure you from my own experiences that Mr. Ren was not the man who encouraged the Armitages to invite us. Maybe it was Victoria’s involvement with Thomas. Or maybe someone well-to-do has their eyes on her.” The least you could do was try to steer the focus of your prying family away from the man you were sure would cause nothing but harm. After all, had he not attempted to keep you trapped in his empty house? Had he not been so improper as to redress you completely? You were sure he had no staff. If your mother, or any respectable man, had seen the way he had laid his hands on you, you were confident he would be tried and exiled by the town.

A ragged sigh escaped you, causing your family to look at you with alarm. 

“My dear,” your mother murmured, “what vexes you so? What secrets are you hiding from us?”

You shook your head quickly, feigning a smile. “None, mama,” you answered hurriedly. “Now, please, Victoria, you wanted to discuss dresses for this party?” Desperately you searched her face, begging in your mind as sisters do for her to get you out of an uncomfortable situation.

Though you quarreled with her often, Victoria had been but a loving supporter of you in your darkest times. While your personalities clashed frequently, she was still your elder sister, and she would have done anything to protect you. Her face immediately brightened, unfolding from a slight frown into a kind, radiant smile.

“Of course, beloved sister,” she answered, rising quickly from her chair and sweeping you from the room with arms linked. After exiting the room, she looked at you coyly. “I cannot pretend to understand what has made you feel so skittish when you are normally so fearsome and brave. I have never seen you shrink into yourself this way -- but I am a simple girl, and any chance to shop with my sister is one I’ll take gladly.”

She drew from the pocket of her dress, a pouch that rattled with heavy coins. “We shall attend the finest dressmaker in town,” said Victoria. “I don’t expect any of us to ever experience a ball like this again, certainly not if Thomas does propose to me.” 

Her humility was startling. You had never known Victoria to speak to you like that, as she had always expressed her dreams of grandeur and elegance. It felt as though a weight released from you, and you nodded shyly.

“So long as there are no storms on the horizon,” you answered, and your sister laughed.

“I pray there aren’t. Let us go before our mother decides to send her orders along with us.” Victoria squeezed your hand and dashed from the room, reappearing with her bonnet and cloak. “Grab your coat! The day is still young, and perhaps we will sit by the river on our way back.”

The coming fall had begun to chill the hot summer air, and a coat felt necessary at times when the wind picked up. You gathered your coat -- an old, patched jacket that had once belonged to your father and wrapped it around yourself before joining your sister at the front door. Waving goodbye to Katherine, the two of you exited the house and set off along the dirt path that led towards town.

There was a gentle breeze that rustled the trees and sent the few fallen leaves dancing along the ground in front of you. All around you were the joyous sounds of birds chirping, with the morning sun warm on your back as you walked. You always felt peace when autumn came; something about the earth beginning to feel the pull of winter sleep wrapped you in a sensation of personal comfort. As you looked down at your feet you watched the footprints in the hard ground: the heavily shod feet of working cart horses, the small, light step of a well-bred riding horse, the boots of men walking up and down the road, and the deep treads of cartwheels carved into the dirt.

When you next looked up, Victoria had placed her hand on your elbow, pulling you to a stop. A carriage had stopped next to you on the road, and a woman was leaning out of the window. You recognized her as the esteemed daughter of Lord and Lady Armitage. She radiates beauty, grace, and all the poise and elegance of a woman classically educated and trained since her birth for high society.

“I heard you’re coming to my party,” said Jane Armitage, smiling at Victoria. She looked right over you as if you were not there. Though you initially felt insulted, you understood rather quickly that it was merely because Victoria, though without the same resources, held the same passion for finery and opulence as Jane did.

“We are!” Replied your sister, releasing your elbow.

“Mother said it was a special request. That, someone, asked for you to attend.” You felt burning behind your ears and looked up to find Jane staring at you. Though her expression was gentle and kind, you could feel a burning resentment in her gaze. You swallowed heavily and mustered a smile.

“I wonder who it is,” you said, desperate to get on your way and away from this conversation. The sudden changes in your life were making your head spin. Never before had you experienced attention like this. After a life of being avoided and ignored, you had suddenly become a talking piece for everyone, including people far beyond your rank.  
“I’m afraid I cannot say,” she said. “Though I have begged for answers, Mother has refused to give me any relief. I suppose we’ll have to wait until the night of the event to see.” Jane held you in no high regard, that was clear. Your reputation for seclusion and oddity had preceded you, and for someone condemned to a life of spinsterhood to attend a party with so many eligible bachelors meant that perhaps you posed the risk that a more important girl would lose one to you.

“We were on our way to town, actually,” quipped Victoria, who sensed your uneasiness. “We meant to see the dressmaker.” She beamed at Jane, who moved her piercing gaze back to your sister, immediately softer.

“I cannot wait to see how radiant you look, Victoria. Surely you will catch the eye of a man who can do better for you than the shopkeeper’s son.” Though it sounded condescending, you recognized that Jane meant it truthfully. She had always held a soft spot for your sister, once offering her piano lessons to improve Victoria’s repertoire of skills. After a deep curtsey from you and Victoria, Jane signaled to the driver to continue. The carriage trundled away, vanishing quickly beyond your view.

Victoria opened her mouth as if to address you, but shut it just as quickly. She must have seen a shadowed expression on your face. The two of you kept walking, but your mind spun in another place. You saw yourself in the ballroom, turning in a white dress with a red ribbon tied around your waist. Your dancing partner was tall, dressed smartly in a black suit. Your eyes were level with his chest, and you could feel your heart skipping in your chest. Somehow you recognized the man before you turned your gaze up to look at him. The butterflies that danced around your spine were familiar, like ghosts that came to haunt you whenever your thoughts turned to Mr. Ren. Something told you over and over not to look up and gaze at him, but you were helpless to resist. Your gaze lifted to look at him, and suddenly you found yourself stumbling and gasping, forced back to reality.

Victoria turned to you quickly, worry on her face.

“I’m sorry,” you said to her. “I must have tripped.” 

You could not tell her that Mr. Ren seemed to have a grasp on your mind. It was as if, at any hour of the day, and at his discretion, he could enter your thoughts and ultimately control them. No matter how hard you worked to forget him, and remove him from your mind, he was always able to draw you back to him. It felt occult to you and chilled you to the bone. If he was, indeed, causing this phenomenon, did it mean that he was thinking of you at the same time? If this was true, why did you consume his thoughts so often?

“Let’s hurry,” you said. “I feel tired suddenly.”

Though Victoria appeared worried still, she humored you, and the two of you quickened your pace, meeting no other travelers on the road. As you passed the shackled gates of Mr. Ren’s estate, you stole a glance at the long, wooded drive. You knew that at the end of it, in an empty house, lived the man who was invading your mind.

“I wonder who lives there,” mused Victoria, gazing longingly down the drive as if hoping she could see the home from here. “Perhaps we will meet him at the party. It has always made me wonder what and who lies at the end of that drive.”

You struggled to speak over the lump that had formed in your throat.

“Perhaps,” you replied, and hurried her quickly forward towards the town. 

Compared to your last journey into town, the square was bustling. Men stood around talking to each other, and carriages and riders passed through on busy roads. Women hurried in and out of the shops, chatting happily to each other. You caught yourself looking around for someone, holding your breath as you searched amongst the crowd for a head of dark, wavy hair. When you caught no sight of him, you exhaled softly, trying not to alert your sister.

Victoria leads you through the busy town, arms linked so she wouldn’t lose you in the crowd. She did not stop at the general store in which Thomas worked, but you were sure that she would try on the return trip. At the door of the dressmaker’s shop, you peered through the windows, finding a room full of other young women getting fittings and choosing fabric. The bell over the door chimed as the two of you entered, and one of the dressmaker’s assistants rushed up to you.

“Miss Victoria,” she chirped. “Are you here to have a dress made? I heard you are attending the Armitage ball!” She was small in stature, with gold ringlets tied up in a loose bun at the back of her head. She dressed plainly, her dress covered by a well-used apron pricked with pins and loose threads.

“Not only myself,” replied Victoria warmly, “but my sister as well.” She looked at you and smiled, to which the shop clerk startled and looked at you as if you had appeared at Victoria’s side like an apparition.

As she stared at you, you watched as the dressmaker looked your way and pardoned herself from the girl she was fitting. You watched as she walked over to you, and gazed not at your sister, but directly at you. It was a stark contrast to the clerk who had treated you as though you were invisible.

“She won’t be placing an order, Millie,” responded the older woman, looking you up and down in scrutiny. “Someone has previously sent in an order for a gown for her, and we have had it made. Well,  _ I _ made it. I received strict instructions to construct it myself.” The dressmaker, though she didn’t outwardly show it, assessed you as though she didn’t understand how someone like yourself could feel such importance. You felt your cheeks redden as the clerk, the seamstress, and your sister turned to stare at you with surprise.

“Well, put her in the gown!” Responded Victoria enthusiastically, breaking the awkward pause. Again you found yourself grateful for her. No doubt she was confused, as were you, though Victoria was far more in the dark. You believed that she had begun to put the pieces together. Your rescue and resuscitation by a strange man, your return to the house on a mysterious horse who carried himself home. The sudden invitation of your family to an upscale party and now this.

The dressmaker led you across the room and cleared a bench for you. She disappeared into the back room of the store and returned with a large box, wrapped in a crimson ribbon. You watched in shock as she untied the box and opened it, lifting from it a gown of exquisite construction and the most beautiful silk. Every woman in the room turned her head to look at it in awe as the dressmaker put you in the gown. It fit you like a glove, hugging your waist and breasts. It highlighted the center of your chest, accentuating your collarbones and neck. The sleeves, of gauzy fabric, modestly covered your arms, while still revealing the skin beneath.

You felt yourself turning red again as you regard yourself in the mirror. You looked beautiful, ethereal even. The fit was impeccable and did not bulge or squeeze anywhere on your body in an unflattering way. The hem fit perfectly, hitting just below your ankles. As you gazed at your reflection, in disbelief that it was indeed you, the dressmaker pulled a long piece of dyed silk ribbon and wrapped it around your waist. Suddenly you realized that you knew this dress. You had seen yourself wearing it before -- only an hour prior. It was the dress that you had seen yourself dancing in.

“Do you like it?” asked the dressmaker. “It fits you perfectly.”

“I love it,” you said breathlessly. “I look beautiful.”

_ I was sure you would. _

You started, looking around the room frantically. Ren's voice was so clear you were sure it whispered in your ear, but as you desperately searched the shop, you found no trace of the mysterious Mr. Ren. As Victoria stared at you incredulously, you realized with horror that you were the only one who heard it. There was no man in the shop, and the chatter of the women that surrounded you would have drowned out such a sound if he had said it to you. With horror, you realized that you had  _ heard _ his voice in your mind. He had  _ spoken _ to you in your head.

Rattled, you asked the dressmaker what you owed her for cost.

Brazenly, she laughed, “sweet girl, someone already paid entirely. Let me take it off of you and put it back in the box.” She removed the ribbon from around your waist and unlaced the back of the dress, removing it smoothly from your body and folding it expertly. She gestured at you that you were to follow her to the counter, where she pulled a small brown paper wrapped package from underneath it.

“The order for the dress came with this,” she answered quietly, removing the brown paper. “The dress is beyond repair, but I wanted to make sure that you did not want it back before I discarded it.”

You looked down at the contents of the brown paper package and caught yourself holding your breath. The item you were looking at was none other than the bloodstained blue dress you had been wearing when the carriage struck you. The clothing you had never recovered when you woke up in Mr. Ren’s mansion. The dress you were not wearing when you ran from the house in startled fear. Though you had previously held little question about who had commissioned this dress for you, this package confirmed your most profound concern.

That morning in the mansion had not been the last you would see the haunting Mr. Ren.

“Please package it,” you whispered, before noticing your tone. You cleared your throat quickly. “Please package it,” you repeated. “I’d like to take it home with me.”

The dressmaker looked at you curiously but obliged your request. She wrapped the dress back in its brown paper and placed it in the box with the ballgown, tying it off again with the red ribbon.

“This ribbon,” you asked, holding the box to your chest. “Did you choose it?”

“It’s extraordinary you asked,” said the dressmaker, returning to her previous fitting. “Almost all our boxes are wrapped with strips of scrap fabric. Most women care not for the dressings of the box, but more for the contents. Whoever requested this dress made for you insisted it was this color. The ribbon had been sent here with the order and the payment.”

You looked at her strangely but nodded. “Thank you,” you said, and went to sit beside your sister. Victoria was standing on a bench being vigorously measured by Millie.

“My dear sister,” said Victoria, smiling at you, “it seems you have an admirer. Wait until Mother hears about this.” She laughed a musical tone that rang as clear as church bells. Victoria seemed to glow as she looked at you, almost proud of your newfound attention.

“No!” You answered hastily, raising your voice. “No,” you lowered your voice. “You mustn’t tell her. I’m sure it is nothing important.”

_ Stop lying to yourself, foolish girl. _

You closed your eyes tightly, trying to force the voice out of your head. 

_ Please, leave me be.  _ You thought, pleading in your mind for your freedom.  _ I can’t take this anymore. You are driving me mad. _

You heard laughter in your mind. Deep, rumbling, and thick. It sent chills down your spine, though not from fear. A warmth shot from the center of your chest down your body, resting between your legs before you squirmed and banished it. These were strange feelings. You were having thoughts that you were sure were not your own.

When Victoria had completed her measurements and called for your questionable judgment in regards to a fabric choice, the two of you departed from the shop. You clutched the box to your dress as though it was a shield, protecting you from your racing heart and flipping stomach.

“I would like to stop at the store and see Thomas,” Victoria mentioned casually, “though I know you would rather stomp home on your own than standing there and listen to me gossip. As much as Thomas would be delighted to hear of your full recovery -- the guilt eats away at him, you know -- I cannot make myself leave you and put you at risk of another accident.”

Though you were initially insulted, you soon heard her musical laugh and realized that she meant it all in jest. Victoria linked arms with you, forcing you to loosen your grip on the package. The walk home seemed lightning fast compared to the journey into town, and you found yourself able to pass the gate to Ren’s estate without a second glance. It appeared that your retort had worked, at least for the meantime.

When you approached the house, Victoria went in first, throwing herself in the path of your mother and closing the two of them into the drawing-room. Victoria could talk for hours, and your mother delighted in it. It allowed you to steal away to your room and slide the box under your bed. There was still a fortnight before the ball, and the less you thought about the event, the more peace you’d feel.

It wasn’t until supper that night that Victoria let the secret slip.

You were sipping on a glass of wine when your sister spoke up, avoiding your eyes as she addressed your mother.

“Someone had a dress made for her, you know,” your sister said. You knew she would be unable to resist for long. “It is simply exquisite, the finest silk. It fits her perfectly. Whoever ordered the dress guessed her measurements perfectly. She will surely be the shining star of the ball, even above Jane Armitage. Her family may be wealthy, but I’m sure this gown is even beyond their generous wealth.”

You quickly looked down at your plate. “Victoria,” you snapped.

“My dear! Why didn’t you tell me? Do you know who?”

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. Your mother looked at you, suspiciously.

“To think!” cried your mother. “My strange daughter has an admirer at last.”

You pushed back your chair and stepped away from the table. “May I please be excused?” Your voice was pleading, and your face was red.  
“Child, what vexes you so? Please, flee if you must, but I wish you wouldn’t act so odd.”

Quickly you dashed from the dining room, locking yourself in your bedroom for the night. You readied yourself for bed, undressing yourself to gaze at your barren chest in the mirror. Between your breasts lay a red mark, angry as it healed. It was the shape of a horseshow, pounded into your flesh by the same beast that had carried you home from your captor. Hastily you redressed yourself, slipping into bed. You covered yourself beneath your duvet and blew out your candle, waiting for the arms of sleep to embrace you.

That night you had a dream, unlike anything you had witnessed before. You lay on a bed, completely naked, with hundreds of candles illuminating the room. At the end of the room stood a man, dressed down to his trousers. His back looked coated in large freckles, and his skin gleamed with sweat. He turned to you, but you didn’t need to see his face to recognize him. Ren approached you, leaning over you and brushing his large hands down the side of your body. His hand cradled the flesh of your breast, squeezing it firmly before his fingers traced their way down your body, caressing your hip and tracing the freckles on your thigh.

Your skin erupted in goosebumps, a small gasp escaping your lips. You finally understood the name for this sensation:  _ desire _ . You longed to feel him; your body ached to feel him touching you. You felt starved your entire life, and now you had been set before a feast. You leaned up to kiss him, lifting a hand to brush the side of his jaw, but as quickly as you raise your back from the bed, he placed his hand on your neck and forced you back down into the cushion. Ren climbed on top of you, one hand propping him up by your head and the other cradling your jaw.

His hand seemed to envelop your face, covering the side of your head and wrapping your jaw in his grasp. When he lowered his head to kiss you, he hesitated before placing his mouth on yours. You begged for him, your hands shaking as you raised them to touch the smooth skin of his back. First, he kissed your ear, and then the corner of your jaw, making his way along the side of your face before he locked his lips onto yours.

He kissed you with a fury as if he was trying to devour you. The kisses were deep and passionate; his teeth were grazing your lips as he caressed you. At first, you were shocked, frozen by your unfamiliarity. Quickly though, you learned to match his lust and kissed him back feverishly, your fingers digging into his back. He emitted a low sound, almost like a feral growl.

Pulling his mouth away from yours, you whimpered in desperation before he continued to lay kisses down your neck. You felt him sucking on the skin in the hollow of your throat. He continued downwards, pausing at each of your breasts to pull your nipples into his mouth, sucking on them gently before pinching them between his teeth. You gasped, a small and pathetic moan escaping your lips. He lifted his eyes, raising his head enough to look at you and smirk. Somehow you were sure he was winning, though at what you didn’t know. Right now, your thoughts focused on other matters, like the sensation of his warm breath on your stomach as he kissed you lower and lower, undoing the buttons of his pants at the same time.

His mouth continued to explore your body, thermal shocks of electricity shooting out from between your legs. He laid a final kiss on the soft mound of flesh above your pussy, before stripping from his trousers completely. Your head pressed back into the pillow, your teeth grit together. The scar on your chest began to ache as your body rushed to warm its entirety. The pain was insignificant to you as you gazed upon the man that lay above you.

Kneeling on the bed, Ren had removed his trousers and appeared naked. A sword was the first thing that came to mind as you looked at him, your lips parted in silent surprise. His member was long, with a girth the width of your wrist. You watched him as he returned to you, kissing you deeply on the mouth, his tongue brushing against the back of your teeth. Again you were preoccupied with him, your mind empty except for the sensations you felt, searing themselves into your subconscious.

So indulged in his kissing as you were, you hardly realized what was happening until you felt the head of his cock pressing against the edge of your pussy. Slowly he pushed himself into you; your body rocked with a foreign but overwhelming sensation. A guttural sound escaped you, fluttering up into a desperate whine as he thrust the length of his member inside you. Ren moved slowly, pressing up against you and pulling back with expert care. You pressed yourself down into the bed, your legs shaking as he pressed his lips into you. When he noticed you were unable to kiss him back, Ren instead pressed his face into the crook of your neck, kissing and biting the tender skin there.

Again, you whimpered. The tension between your legs was mounting, and you were sure that soon you would burst like a geyser. Ren seemed to understand this, too, as he quickened his pace to meet the rocking of your hips against him. You were desperate, like a dog in heat. It embarrassed you, but the thought was quickly pushed away by a muttered word under his breath. It was  _ your name _ . The fire that this set in you was nearly unbearable. A tremor had mounted in your body, and your head seared with desperation.

You began to feel your body reaching its peak, the strange sensations thrilling you still. Your breath was panting in your chest, and the whimpering became frequent. Ren began to push into you faster, his desperation exposing itself at last. Each time you made a weak sound of satisfaction, another low rumble slipped from his mouth. He was bruising your neck as if you were a horse he had to brand to stake his claim.

Just as you began to feel as though you would be relieved from this pressure building in you, you snapped awake. Your skin and shift had become soaked in sweat, a dark, wet mark left on your pillow. Your hair was stuck down, and your chest rose and fell as you struggled to catch your breath. A thick beam of moonlight shone across your room, illuminating the mirror across from you. You sat up, desperate to calm yourself, and stared at yourself in the mirror. Turning your neck, you were sure that you would catch sight of a bruise forming there. As you inspected it quickly, your fingers palpating the flesh, you found it to be in perfect condition. Was this indeed a dream, or was it another invasive plot by the devil Ren himself?

Adorning yourself with a dressing gown, throwing on your worn coat, you crept out of your house and into the fields that ran along the back. You needed to do anything to clear your head.


	4. The Ball

The morning of the ball, you rose before the sun. Though you were well known to spend the early hours of the morning walking through the fields and forests that surrounded your home, it was rare to see you awake before sunrise. Since you had the dream, you had found yourself struggling to sleep. You lived in a state of fear that it would happen again, combated by a secret longing for the fantasy to return. Despite your concerns and desires, you had neither envisioned nor heard the voice of Mr. Ren. The torture was now at your own hands; the desperation to conjure images of him in your mind was driving you to the edge of madness. It seemed that even when he did not possess you of his hand, his control over you was so reliable that you were doing it to yourself.

After a long walk on the misty, dew-covered moors that surrounded your home, stopping to sit at the base of a large tree at the edge of a pond, you dipped your fingers into the cold water and watched their glimmering form warp as you flicked your wrist back and forth. Tonight you would find yourself in the grand home of the Armitage family, where you would come face to face with Jane’s arrogance and air of superiority. That worried you less, you found, than the way it would have consumed you earlier that year. Instead, your anxiety focused on the fact that it was now, finally, time for you to come face to face with Mr. Ren once more.

You returned to your house hours after you snuck away to find your mother and sisters bustling into the dining room to sit down for breakfast. You hung your father’s worn coat on a peg by the door and sat down in your regular place, filling a glass of water for yourself from the pitcher in the center of the table.

Already Victoria had begun to chatter to you about the arrangements the two of you needed to get ready. Your mother was beaming, chiming in when she could about the details of the night.

“We should wash after we dine,” said Victoria. “Then you and I can lay in the parlor and dry our hair.” She was always a methodical planner, leaving little room for your annoying independence throwing wrenches in her plans.

“Leave the water out for me,” said your mother, “though my priorities remain that my two daughters should find themselves bewitching men this evening.” She smiled warmly at you and tucked into her food.

She wanted  _ you _ to bewitch someone, apparently still wholly unaware that you had found yourself at the receiving end of the enchantment. You found your heart racing again at the thought of meeting Ren face to face, of curtseying deeply at him as though the two of you were strangers, being introduced by your hosts. You imagined that he would compliment you on your appearance, and you would have to reply as though you were none-the-wiser to the source of your mysterious gown. Surely he would ask you to dance with him, and you would be polite enough to say yes. All the while, you would be unable to reveal anything about your dreams, or your visions, or the way you could hear his voice with crystalline clarity in your mind.

You finished your breakfast and followed Victoria to the kitchen, where you found your family’s maid filling a basin of water with pails of cold water from well. You undressed and stepped into the metal washtub, pulling your knees up to your chest. Victoria squeezed a sponge full of soap and pressed it over your head, soaking your hair in cold suds. She combed the tangles of your hair with her fingers, gently washing it in the cold water. When she finished, you took the sponge and washed down your body, standing in the basin to rinse yourself down.

Removing yourself from the tub, you wrapped yourself in a wool blanket that had been sitting before the fire, cloaking yourself in the warm fibers as the cloth absorbed the loose water from your body. When you felt dry, and warmth had returned to your fingers and toes, you dressed again quickly and began to help Victoria wash her hair in return. At last, when the two of you had finished bathing and had redressed, you moved to a sun-filled parlor. You lounged around on the furniture for the remainder of the morning, drying your hair.

At last, as the sun rose into the midday, you excused yourself to your room and shut the door. Expelling a quiet breath, you undressed once again and stepped into a clean linen shift. From the chest at the end of your bed, you pulled a white corset, buckling it across your chest and grasping the strings in the back. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you began to draw the laces tighter, inhaling, and exhaling deeper as you found a comfortable snugness. Smoothing your shift and removing the bunches that had formed beneath your corset, you stepped into a petticoat and tied it tightly across your waist, smoothing again. Not only did it ensure your garments laid flat, but it was also a comforting gesture for you. It made you feel connected to your body, as the anxiety building in the back of your eyes was growing worse every moment.

The moment you pulled the box with your ball gown in it, you heard a knocking at your door. Snapping yourself from the trace you found in, you walked across the room and pulled it open, exposing your mother on the other side.

“Someone has sent a carriage,” she said breathlessly, moving to your window to gaze out at the front-drive.

You, too, rushed to the window, peering over your head on the tips of your toes. You grasped your bottom lip in your teeth in anticipation, finally catching sight of the carriage and horses waiting there: a black carriage, with luxurious gold and red trim, pulled by a pair of black horses. Each adorned in matching red and black harnessing. Their thick manes flowed down their necks in gentle waves, locks of hair that sent your mind reeling. You did not recognize the driver, but the carriage was familiar. The scar on your chest began to burn as you looked at it. The sensation of being struck by those horses and rolled over by those wheels fresh was in your mind.

“Is it time to leave already?” you asked, your voice quiet and breaking.

“No, we have an hour or two still. But hurry child, so you do not make them wait for us.” As quickly as she came, your mother rushed out of the room to inform Victoria. You closed the door behind her and steadied yourself with a deep breath. Your heart was doing flips in your chest.

Turning to the box on your bed, you lifted out the brown paper package and placed it on the contents of the open chest. With delicate hands, you lifted the silk gown from the box and held it up in front of the light. It seemed to glow, a beautiful garment that felt wrong for someone like yourself to wear. You hung it in front of your window and watched it drift in the wind.

Sitting before your dressing table, you combed through your hair with a boar bristle brush, making sure it looked smooth and glossy. Reaching for a dish of pins on your desk, you began to lift and curl pieces of your hair, pinning them to the back of your head in an elegant style that accentuated your neck. Over your hairstyle, you wrapped netting with pearls, popping against the color of your hair. You patted some blush onto your cheeks and your eyelids, rubbing a cake mascara into your eyelashes and brows. Your appearance looked so different. You looked like a doll. Your coquettish face seemed foreign to you, but you didn’t hate it.

Standing, you stepped into the hallway and called for your sister. She appeared to you in her dress, a beautiful smock of white linen with a pale blue ribbon tied around your waist. Victoria always looked angelically beautiful, her eyes framed by long lashes and her cheeks naturally pink. First, you buttoned the back of her dress and smoothed it over her shoulders. Then, she helped you get into your gown, lacing it carefully on the back. At last, she reached around your waist with the scarlet ribbon, tying it in a perfect bow at the back. Stepping away, Victoria looked at you with shining eyes.

“You look so beautiful,” she murmured. “I wish father could see you now.”

You felt your eyes begin to grow sore from restraining back tears.

“I know,” you said. “So do I.”

There was a shrill call from the bottom floor of the house, your mother’s Soprano shout summoning you down to get in the carriage. Shaking your head, you watched as Victoria carefully dabbed at her eyes. The two of you curtsied at each other, laughing at how ridiculous you felt.

“I have butterflies,” Victoria said over her shoulder as you swept down the stairs with her.

“Me too,” you said, though you were unsure if the strength of the turning in your stomach would be butterflies anymore. Perhaps falcons, or maybe a hurricane. As you neared the bottom of the stairs, you heard your mother gasp.

“You look so beautiful,” said your mother, echoing Victoria’s sentiments earlier. “I wish your father could see you like this.” You smiled. The two of them were indeed so alike. 

“Now, if only you could find yourself engaged, his spirit could rest at last.” Your mother had always been like this; it wasn’t that she didn’t love you. She was trained to be preoccupied with the concept of the success of her children. To your mother, the true mark of being a good parent was finding good spouses for all of your children. You knew she believed you were a hopeless case, and you felt for a second a moment of bashfulness for hiding your experiences from her. 

“We need to go,” you said, pulling your worn jacket from the peg.  
“Don’t take that ratty jacket when you look so beautiful,” said your mother. “We’ll bring blankets in the carriage.” She lifted a pile of old wool blankets into her arms, and the three of you hustled from the house, waving goodbye to young Katherine.

The carriage was plush on the inside, with a black interior and velvet-covered seats. Though you seated yourself next to your sister, you could not pull your eyes from the floor. You knew that there would be no sign of a stain on the ground, but you were confident you could see the remainders of your blood on the ground. Your family chatted as the carriage trundled down along the road, but your head was elsewhere. You had been in this rocking carriage before, unconscious and afraid. There was no way you could tell your mother or sister that this was  _ the _ carriage that had struck you two months ago.

When you snapped yourself from your daze, the sun had begun to sink below the trees. You rolled down the long drive of the Armitage estate, finding yourself in a crescent-shaped path along the front of the house. Your driver called into you to remain seated while he pulled up to the center of the half-circle. When you peered out of the window, you saw a line of carriages in front of you, footmen opening the doors and escorting the passengers out. All you saw were beautiful young women in gorgeous dresses. Suddenly, though you found yourself feeling so beautiful earlier, you became concerned with your inadequacy.

Your carriage pulled forward, and a footman approached you to open the door. His white glove hand grasped yours, balancing you as you stepped down to the ground. While you tried to wait for your mother and Victoria, servants from the estate were ushering you into the building. In the wild twists and turns that had pushed you into the spotlight of your little town, you were appreciative of the fact that here, at the party, you were just another guest.

The inside of the house was decorated expertly. There were ropes of white roses on green vines wrapped around the pillars and railings. Every chandelier and candelabra were stuffed with white candles, all emitting a soft floral scent. Servants rushed between the crowd of people, and guests spoke to each other in small groups. As you made your way through the foyer of the house, you noticed that conversations hushed, and eyes turned to look at you. It made you want to hide, to turn and rush to the comfort of the outdoors. You felt that you needed to find yourself in the garden, away from the people. Something told you you couldn’t leave.

The hosts of the party were standing at the doors that lead from the foyer to the ballroom. A line of people passed through, introducing themselves, and greeting their guests. You approached them and curtseyed deeply. “Your house looks beautiful,” you said. “Thank you very much for inviting me here.” 

Lady Armitage smiled graciously at you. “Someone of great importance requested that you come. He spoke so highly of you that I knew you must be a wonderful young woman. Looking at you now, I understand why he asked to have you here.” She looked at you with warmth and almost jealousy. You wondered why looking around for her daughter.

Passing through into the ballroom, you saw happy couples dancing already, a band playing in the stand above the room. All around you, you could hear the lyrical laughs of young women. All of them looked radiant, but still, all turned to look at you. Several of them approached you, curtseying politely before complimenting you on your dress. All asked your name, and several came over from a small group to giggle about a gentleman with you. 

The new attention was overwhelming, and your eyes scanned the crowd for the man you were hoping to see. He had gone through so much effort to bring you here, buying you a dress, sending a carriage, and even telling the hosts to invite you. However, you could not see him anywhere. Perhaps he had not arrived yet. You felt a tap on your shoulder and turned sharply; your hopes dashed when a strange blonde man bowed and asked you to dance. Hoping for any distraction from your obsessive thoughts, you accepted and joined him in the center of the room as the band warmed up for a new song. You acknowledged each other and began to dance, weaving in and out of the line of dancers.

About halfway through, as the man began to prompt casual conversation, you noticed a dark figure in a black suit enters the room. Suddenly it was as if no one else was present. You continued to dance but felt his eyes on you at all times. You could hardly draw away your own, before biting sharply down on your tongue and breaking the spell. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Ren frown, moving through the crowd to the edge of the ballroom. Many young women approached him, but he turned them all away. His eyes burned into the back of your head.

Filled with a sense of rebellion as the dance finished, you asked your strange partner if he would care to join you in another. As you were speaking to him, you watched Ren detach himself from the wall and approach you. Your heartbeat grew louder the closer he came, only to hear him pardon himself into your conversation. You knew that keeping up appearances was necessary, so you turned to him and curtseyed. He bowed in return, his dark hair falling into his face. As he rose, he brushed it back and looked at you fearlessly.

“I couldn’t help but notice you,” said Ren, smiling only slightly. “I knew I had to come and introduce myself.” His forwardness was foreign but maintained a cautious level of politeness. The two of you had to play at strangers, at least for now. “My name is Ren,” he said.

You looked at him and straightened your shoulders, hands loosely clasped together in front of you. “Thank you for the compliments, sir,” you replied, before telling him your name. “I am sure I could not be half as handsome as most of the women in this room.”

“Your humility is charming,” Ren replied. “But I am certain that you are a star brighter than the others.” He smiled again, cooly, looking at you as though he knew the two of you were struggling with restraint.

As you went to reply, you found yourself facing his back. In front of him was Jane Armitage, curtseying and making frivolous comments that you were sure he had no care for. In fact, as though you had suddenly received a glimpse into his own mind, you felt heated frustration. Never in your wildest dreams did you expect Jane Armitage to provide you relief from the uncomfortable situation. Grabbing the hand of your blonde dancing partner, you leaped into the center of the room and joined the dance.

When Ren had freed himself from Jane’s romantic grasp, he turned to find that you had disappeared. Surely he had thought you would be subservient enough to stay and wait for his reply. To see you dancing in the center of a room with a strange, plain-looking man infuriated him. You knew this to be accurate because you felt that fury on the back of your neck. When you glanced over, you saw his face to be still and pleasant, but his eyes burned like a coal fire.

After the dance, you excused yourself from your partner and turned to leave the ballroom, desperate for seclusion in another section of the house. As you turned away from him, you were met with those fiery dark eyes.

“Might you appease my desperate heart with the next dance?” asked Ren.

You stared at him for a moment, calculating the risks and rewards of your subsequent decision. Wringing your hands, you replied, “Oh, I am so sorry, but I find myself suddenly exhausted. Please excuse me.”

Without allowing him a chance to respond, you hurried from the room. Casting a quick glance over your shoulder, you caught the glaring stare of Jane Armitage, who swooped in on the unsuspecting stranger once again. If she wanted him so desperately, you felt she should have him. If only she knew the way he had consumed you, perhaps she would change her mind. You knew Jane to be a woman of principle, and a mysterious bachelor that she had not seen before was prey ripe for the kill.

As you exited the ballroom, you saw a flash of an idea that was not your own. You saw a knife, blood dripping from the tip. A crowd gasped, and a scream rang out as Jane Armitage lay lifeless on the floor. As cries of murder erupted in the party, you saw the dagger carefully slipped into hiding beneath a waistcoat, and a shadowy man rushing to body to help her.

Haunted by this image which you were evidently not allowed to see, you moved down a hallway and turned to pass through a door that led to the garden, as if directed by an unseen force. Catching your first deep breaths of cold air, you pressed yourself against the wall of the house and tried to calm yourself down. You had known now that Ren had a way of entering your mind, of passing his thoughts to you. But as far as you were aware, he controlled what he showed you. This angry flash of violent thought was private. You knew it was not meant for your mind to comprehend.

_ He’s a murderer, _ you thought, horror flooding your body.  _ He wants to kill her! And for what? Her interfering with his plan? _

Though you were sure you would receive no reply, you heard one.

_ This foolish girl has distracted me. I let her slip away. She knows too much now about how to block me out of her mind. God, these mindless women, they are like farm animals. _

These words shocked you. It was not a reply after all, but a separate thought. The channel had been opened both ways, perhaps when you had broken his bewitching hold on you in the ballroom. You still had the iron taste of your own blood lingering in your mouth. If you could, indeed, communicate freely through the ties of the supernatural like this, could he receive your own devilish thoughts? 

Focusing as hard as you can, you imagined yourself and the blonde man exiting a church. You were wearing a white dress even more delicate than that which you currently wore. A long white veil cascaded behind you, and as you looked over at the blonde man, he smiled at you with the world in his eyes. You felt the uneven cobblestones beneath your feet and the dampness of the bouquet of flowers in your hand. Waiting outside the church was a crowd of onlookers: your mother, Victoria, the Armitages. Everyone cheered and smiled at you. Across the road, you could see a man in a dark suit watching from beneath the shadow of a large tree. Turning to look at your new husband, the two of you kissed deeply. Ren had never succeeded in his crusade for you. He had lost.

Immediately you felt an excruciating headache. The pain was so intense that you had to close your eyes, pressing your hands up to your head. It must have worked. This anger and stress you felt were unlike anything you’d experienced yourself. Ren was furious, not only because you had seemingly cracked his hold on you and wiggled your way into his mind, but also because you had used it to taunt him.

The door to the house from which you left slammed open, and you turned to see the stranger who had joined you. You did not move fast enough, for you immediately found yourself with a hand on your throat, pressed against the wall of the house. Ren’s grip was not tight enough to cause you to suffocate, but his fingers were firm.

“You’re a sore loser,” you said, watching him as he loomed over you, scowling. His chest was heaving. “Maybe you should have stuck with silly, foolish, mindless Jane.” You narrowed your eyes and bared your teeth.

While normally he would have laughed at you, Ren only faltered in fury and disbelief.

“You nearly killed me,” you continued. “You almost cost me my life, but something made you stop and help me. You looked at me indecently, and then you consumed me. You invaded my most sacred haven, my own mind, and chose to make it your own. I care not for your power, your grandeur, and your threats. Should you lay a hand on that girl tonight and cause her harm, I will know exactly where you are to find you.”

He loosened his grip for a moment, apparently taken aback by your brazen retort. His face looked shocked, and then it slipped into something else: longing. He dipped his head, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I have never before come face to face with an equal,” he murmured.

You scoffed. “I am not your equal,” you said in reply, “I am not a cold, frightened killer who tricks and riddles my way into someone else’s life. Perhaps if you were as great and formidable as you claim, perhaps if you had but a sliver of the power you like to make everyone believe, you would have the courage to meet me beyond the cover of a lavish party.”

Placing both hands on his chest, you pushed him back, moving to reenter the house. As you turned, you felt his hand grasp your wrist.

“I think I love you,” he murmured.

Jerking your hand away, you looked at him with disdain. “I think you are a coward,” you answered, and disappeared back into the house. Your heart was pounding; you would never have believed yourself to have the courage to do something like that. You found yourself repeatedly looking over your shoulder, but caught no sight of Mr. Ren. Returning to the ballroom, you found yourself in the arms of your sister. You exchanged brief words before Victoria raised her eyes to look behind you. It was that you heard the clearing of a throat behind you.

Stepping to Victoria’s side, you turned around.

“Miss,” said Ren, back to the charades, “I can only plead that you change your mind and accept this dance.” He bowed, scooping up your hand and placing a kiss on the back of your palm. While you had every intention of rejecting him, you felt a sharp elbow in your side from your sister.

“I will,” you said tersely. “Mr. Ren, may I please introduce you to my sister, Victoria?” You gestured to your sister, who curtsied and smiled.

The dark stranger bowed in return, before taking your hand and leading you away. As you walked from Victoria, you heard her giggle and whisper to someone, “I wonder if that is the man that has been doting on her? My sister would be foolish to reject him.”

As the two of you joined the dance floor, all eyes seemed to fall on you. The two of you bowed to each other and joined hands in the middle of the room. Ren's grip was firm, but not aggressive, and his face had softened since he last looked at you. Instead of looking at you with anger and possessiveness, he gazed at you with an expression of awe and appreciation. After several silent moments, he spoke to you.

“You are a fearsome woman,” Ren muttered, almost lost in the chatter of the rest of the patrons and dancers. He grasped your hand again, only for a moment, before running his thumb along the side of your palm, releasing back as you completed another turn.

“You are a frightening man,” you responded, weaving through the crowd of dancers.

He faltered, looking at you carefully before rejoining the rhythm of the dance. “No one has ever been able to turn away from me before, but you did.” His voice was low, a curious hum like the purring of a satisfied housecat.

“And how many others have you bewitched as you tried so desperately with me?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll never have to worry about them.”

“No,” you said, “but it seems I have to spend every moment in worried agony over you.”

He pulled you in towards his chest, and suddenly it was as if no one else was with you. You looked up at him, your face cold and indifferent, and he looked down at you the way a wolf might look at a sheep. “Do you think that you do not consume me? That since I saw you first, my mind has been capable of seeing little else but your face? You have been devouring my freedom, and I long for nothing more but to--”

The dance came to a halt. You had barely noticed that you had continued dancing, so indulged in your encounter. You curtsied to Ren, and he bowed to you in return. You stepped away from him. Things would look suspicious if you lingered, and you weren’t confident any way that you wanted to spend further time with him. It was better that way, so as not to draw further attention to yourself, or find yourself tangled deeper in this web of mystery.

As you looked casually around the room, your wrist was snatched by someone unseen. You were pulled into a dark room off to the side of the ballroom. You looked around, trying to find your bearings, and heard a voice hiss instead.

“What do you think you’re doing?” growled the girl. You turned around to find that it was Jane Armitage who had spirited you away from the ball and into the dark, empty room. After everything you had faced so far that day, you could not find it within yourself to fear her.

“I am dancing at a ball I was invited to,” you replied indifferently. “I did not know you concerned yourself with the doings of unimportant people.” Throwing a casual shrug, you watched her face closely.

“I care when the unimportant people seem to be diverting the attention of those important enough for my taste,” said Jane, scowling murderously at you. Now you understood her fury -- you had stolen the one thing her heart desired most. She had no doubt pestered her parents for months to track him down. Once she had seen him in person for the first time, Jane had wanted nothing more. It must have agonized her to see Ren’s attention focus on someone as insignificant as you. If only she knew.

“He is no saint, Jane,” you said, attempting to talk sense into her. There was no conclusion to this problem in which she would be satisfied.

“And how would you know?” She snapped, hands balled into fists at her side.

“Come, Jane, do you not realize what is painfully clear? Me, a woman of no importance, invited to your ball on the request of one of your guests. A dress, more fine than anything I have ever possessed, is waiting for me at the dressmaker's. A carriage of unknown origin arriving at my home to drive me here. A man who has danced with no other girl. Open your eyes, Jane, your desires are fruitless.” You looked at her with a sad, pitying expression on your face and turned to leave.

Something cold and sharp was pressed into the side of your neck, a hand wrapped around your shoulders. Your eyes widened as suddenly the gravity of the situation was made clear to you. Jane was going to kill you for a man you did not particularly want. Jealousy had turned her into a beast. No doubt, she would lie and blame it on a member of the staff. If she slit your throat, how long would it be before she walked down the aisle with Mr. Ren?

You were not vain, or particularly proud, but you were not a coward. It was not in your nature to lie in waiting for your life to end. As you squirmed to decipher a way to remove her from you, Jane pressed the knife deeper into your skin. A hiss emitted from your mouth as you felt a trail of hot blood run down your neck and over your shoulder.

“You must agree not to speak to him again,” Jane said, her voice shrill and panicked. “If you do not affirm this, I will kill you.”

A shudder rocked your body. Your life had never been so thrilling and dangerous as it was now. Closing your eyes, you painted a picture with your mind. Jane, holding the knife to your throat, her words echoing in the empty room. Your silence, betraying her, forcing her to plunge the knife into your neck in the act of blind rage. In your mind’s eye, you picture your body falling to the ground like a rag doll, a crimson stain spreading around you. You could see your white dress coloring red, lying alone in the empty space as your life seeped out from around you. By the time someone found you, it would be too late.

“Please,” you murmured, “help me.”

Jane laughed behind you, the knife turning in your skin, causing another warm trail of blood to fall from the wound. “Help you?” she asked incredulously. “You stupid woman, all it takes is a yes.”

Your eyes were tracking the beam of light that escaped beneath the door, and your heart skipped when you watched the light blacken. Both you and your captor stared as the doorknob turned, the door swinging inwards slowly as the figure stepped into the room and shut it behind him. 

“Let her go,” said that deep, velvet voice.

Stunned, Jane dropped the knife and ran to Ren. “I would never have done anything; I didn’t want her to interfere with us. I know what my heart says is true, and that we are meant to be with each other.”

Ren looked at her and raised a brow, before shoving her to the side. He moved to you quickly, his breath held as he tilted up your chin and inspected the wound. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Ren pressed it to the site of your injury. “Does it hurt?” he asked, his brows knit together and his voice laced thick with worry.

You shook your head. “Not too bad,” you answered him.

Jane was fretting in the background, trying to make small conversation and gain back Ren’s attention. He turned to look at her, and you longed to see the expression on her face that made her turn to frightened stone. 

“Get out of my sight,” he growled. “And if I hear a word of this, I promise I will return the damage done here tenfold.” Jane listened immediately and snuck from the room.

At his words, a shiver ran down your body.

“You seem to get into a lot of trouble for a girl who does not leave her house,” he remarked, removing the handkerchief to check on the severity of your injury. “Though I know you to be an adventurous spirit, this seems to be an excess of danger.”

“How much danger was caused by yourself?” you quipped, looking at him.

Ren said nothing, but smirked and chuckled to himself. He folded the handkerchief and stuck it back in his pocket. “I think we should send you home,” he murmured. “Get your mother and your sister and take your carriage home. Make up a reason.”

“What will you do?” you asked, frowning only slightly.

“That is an indecent question,” he responded.

“Perhaps I am an indecent woman,” you answered, raising an eyebrow.

Ren did not laugh, though the corner of his mouth lifted. He simply looked at you with those piercing brown eyes, as though he could see through the layers of your clothes. His eyes grazed up and down you several times before Ren moved. Placing his thumb and forefinger on your chin, he bent down and kissed you deeply.

Pulling back, he moved to your ear and whispered in a low, gravelly tone, “ride your family’s horse westward past the pond. When you reach the old gate, pass over it, and enter the forest. There will be a small path, perhaps faint and overgrown. Follow that path until you see the lights of my home. Knock on the main doors.”

Smirking at you once more, he bowed and vanished from the room. You could have sworn that you never saw the door open or close. You crossed the room, exiting by a door that led into the foyer. You passed swiftly into the ballroom to find your family. 


End file.
